


It Happens

by treetracer



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kissing, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 02:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20575166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treetracer/pseuds/treetracer
Summary: "Then I’d felt searing heat on my leg, heard the heavy clink of iron on iron, and cold fear had gripped me because I knew I could do nothing about whatever was about to transpire."





	It Happens

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS FOR XI JUSTICE: GHOSTS OF THE PAST***  
I'm filling the gaps for when Valdimar appears at the end of the most recent chapter. I absolutely love Muriel and wish I'd started his route sooner. I hope you'll pardon any errors. I'm just glad to be back in the writing arena. Aster is my MC, I think the name may have been the default but somehow the name works and I like the aster family of flowers - all is well.

We’d done just as Morga had wanted. We’d gone headfirst into battle. The sound of Morga’s mighty war cry, the thunderous echo of Muriel’s silent strength, and the hushed whistle of my arrows are now distant memories. I am in a haze. In a different world. A world full of pain. 

I hadn’t been paying attention to the magic around me, only the magic that I had to gather for my bolts. Vulgora had been quick with their attacks on Morga and then Muriel – their swordsmanship was lethal and beautiful. The high arcs of the blade, pirouetted dodges, and jabs had been horrifically mesmerizing. Muriel had caught the blade across his shoulder, then Morga had stepped in to buy him a moment, all while I looked for clean shots and took them. None of my arrows had found a home in the gold and red clad courtier. Valdamar the ever present sentinel on the hill.

Then I’d felt searing heat on my leg, heard the heavy clink of iron on iron, and cold fear had gripped me because I knew I could do nothing about whatever was about to transpire. The movement was rapid, violent, and terrifying as the chains snapped me up into the air. The tendons of my right leg couldn’t handle the strain against the socket and the hip popped from place. The pain was blinding, and I cried out with the agony that rippled through me. Muriel snapped his head back to look at me, horror etching his features, when his gaze trailed up the chain and found me dangling like a ragdoll from it. I only had a moment, in the haze of pain, to wonder how high I was from the earth – too high. Then, just as quickly as I had been snatched up, I was slung across the great cemetery in the South. End over end I flew, the earth rose to meet me, and I knew that it would knock the wind from me even before it did. I tumbled over the ground, forget-me-nots flying up in dainty blue plumes, as I skidded and skipped across the field before a grave marker stopped me. My head cracked against the ornately carved stone, my vision blurred, as I gasped for air, trying to fill my stunned lungs. 

I’m lying here now. The beautiful blue flowers soothe my mind, even though I struggle to stay conscious. My body is burning up with pain that radiates from my leg and I can feel the oozing heat of blood dripping down my scalp where it had contacted the stone that is now at my back. I feel it all, but I cannot comprehend it – it does not feel real even though I know that it is. I know that my hip is dislocated, the sinew there strained awkwardly beyond its normal point of stretching. My head swims with the impact of skull against granite. Tears fall from my eyes, but my ribs hurt, my shoulder hurts, and I do not want to cry. 

But I am scared. 

I have never felt like this, that I can remember. I have never known this level of physical anguish. I am weak of body and of mind because I should have felt the hot magic below the ground and combated it before it spirited me away. 

I watch a honeybee visit a flower before me before picking another and then another, gathering pollen as she drinks nectar. I can feel myself slipping away, my body shutting my mind down, telling it to rest, while it tries to sort out the damage – to see if it can be repaired. A breeze touches my cheek, the one exposed to the bright blue sky overhead, and it chills my body. I shiver involuntarily, my muscles jerk and spasm, lighting new fires on raw nerves. Tears track over the bridge of my nose and I feel the void opening, its great maw closing in on the edges of my vision, just as I hear my name being called. It’s too late. I slip into blessed darkness just as I see Muriel’s form step into view. 

My screaming pierces the air, the sound tears from my throat, lungs not large enough to fully express the pain that twists my body. The searing agony from my hip pulls me out of the black emptiness I’d resigned myself to. I strain against the hands that hold me in place on the ground, they are familiar, but they offer no comfort. 

“Hold her down!” Morga bellows as she braces my pelvis with one hand and hooks the whole of my dislocated leg with the other. I struggle against Muriel’s hold, angry, hurting, and afraid. It’s going to hurt worse. I know it is. I look up into Muriel’s clear green eyes and I can see, in the bright light of the late afternoon sun, the anguish there, the worry, the fear. I grab hold of his arm, knotting my fingers into the thick fabric of his cloak, frantic as I do so. I need an anchor. 

“Don’t look away,” I whisper just as I feel Morga press her weight into my leg and the hip snaps back into place. I try and bite back the scream, but I cannot. It overpowers me, shreds my throat, and pounds in my temples, splitting my thoughts and scattering them. I curl inward and press my forehead to the steely strength of Muriel’s bicep as the pain begins to eb. Morga take my leg and rotates it and I groan, wishing she’d leave me alone. The hip still burns but it is not the overwhelming anguish that it was before. I relax back onto the ground, eyes closed, and my head is about to meet the ground, when a large hand stops me. I blink up at the imposing figure of my friend and I remember that I’d also hit my head. I smile weakly and gently place a hand on his forearm, his expression remains concerned and worried as he gently lowers my head to the cool grass. 

He lifts himself away from me, careful not to jostle me, and sits, for a moment, at my side. His eyes drift back to mine before he casts his gaze away from me, his full mouth turned down in a grimace.  


“I… I’m sorry,” he says, and I frown, knitting my brows together in confusion at his words. 

“What for?” I ask him and my voice is much hoarser than I thought it would be and I struggle for the words. 

“If I’d… if I’d stayed closer to you… maybe this – you, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt,” he says and I reach to place a hand on his knee and it brings his eyes back to mine. 

“It’s no one’s fault, Muriel. It just happened,” I smile, trying to reassure him but I’m not convinced that I do. He looks like he might speak, his eyes intense, but he relaxed the tension in his shoulders and sighs. 

“You’re… you’re right,” he concedes and I’m glad to see him unwind. I reach for his large hand and take it in mine, he hesitates for just a moment, before returns the grip and runs his thumb over the back of my hand. The simple contact is soothing, and I close my eyes, sinking into myself, feeling the grass tickle my neck and scalp. I feel the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the breeze. The South is in winter, but this stretch of land has no snow. We’re in a forest now and I find myself missing the forget-me-nots. 

“Muriel… where are we?” I ask and he exhales heavily. 

“We’re several miles to south west of where we were, near the base of the mountains,” Morga answers for him and I peel my eyes open to look at her. “You’ve been out for a while, Muriel and I tried to put as much distance between Vulgora and us as we could. He carried you most of the way but your leg was out of traction for a while, it may take some time before you can properly walk on it,” I can’t see her face from where I lye but I know that she’d scowling, based on her voice. “I’m going to scout ahead and see if I can find an inn or shelter,” she says as I feel Inanna come up to me and curl up against my side. I feel suddenly very drowsy and my eyes flutter shut, sleep tugging heavily at me, and I know it’s from the trauma. It slips out of me and I fall into slumber. 

When I awake next, I find myself staring at the beams of a roof overhead, a plush mattress under me and warm blankets over me. I am cozy and content under the quilts and I have no desire to move. My bladder, however, insists that I do, and I rise from the bed, my body protesting with each inch, and look around. I am alone. The coolness of the room makes me want to retreat back into the sanctuary of my bed. I notice, now, that I am only wearing a nightgown, no undergarments, and I reach to touch the bandage I now feel on my head. Tentatively I reach back and gingerly touch the place where I had struck the stone. It is sore and the hair around it is matted but feels clean, it no longer bleeds, and I am thankful for it. 

Quietly I limp to the chamber pot I see in the corner of the dimly lit room. I look around as I cross the room. There is a plush rug before a fireplace, the embers inside of it are glowing, but are too low to provide warmth to the area. A wardrobe sits on the wall opposite the entrance to the room. It is old but still appears to be in good shape. There is a chest at the end of the bed I was resting in, a small table by the headboard, and pictures on the wall. They look handmade, not something a professional would paint but they are pretty from what I can see. Wispy curtains cover a window, allowing the moon to filter in. The room is comfortable, cozy, and I feel at ease. 

I take care of nature’s call, wash my hands in a small basin beside it, and am halfway back across the room when Muriel opens the door, light from the hall pours in. I see a flash of worry cross his features when he sees my bed is empty, only to relax when he looks up to see me crossing the room. I smile sheepishly and wave. He walks in, closes the door, sets the tray of hot tea, dried fruits, bread, and cheese on the bed before he comes to my side. 

“Let me help,” he says quietly, his voice a low, warm, rumble that washes over my soul as I take his offered hand. He assists me to my bed, and I sit down, smoothing my gown over my knees, before he offers me the food and drink. I take it. He sits beside me on the plush mattress and I offer him a dried apricot, but he turns it down. 

The room is quiet as I eat but it isn’t uncomfortable, and I enjoy Muriel’s silent company. I’m reminded of how lonely I felt just this morning, in pain, and frightened, wishing I wasn’t by myself lying in the forget-me-nots. I eat my fill and place the plate to the side and lean to rest my head against Muriel’s shoulder. He doesn’t stiffen as I expect him to, there is only the briefest of flinches, before he sighs and, to my surprise and delight, he hesitantly takes my hand in his. This afternoon he’d held my hand as I lay in the grass and I find that I long for these precious moments with him – when his guard is down, and he is at ease. I thread our fingers together and smile, softly, at seeing his large hand laced with mine.

“Thank you,” I say after a while, voice still hoarse but it isn’t as bad with the hot, honeyed, tea having soothed it.

“…I did nothing,” he says after a beat. I squeeze his hand and find my throat tightening with sudden emotion. 

“You did…” I say and swallow thickly. “I was afraid, and you did not look away. You were the last thing I saw before the darkness and the first when I woke from it,” I say and tilt my head to look up at his somber profile. He does not look my way; he stares at our linked hands. “You held my hand,” I whisper, and I lift our hands to my lips, and I kiss the back of his before nuzzling it. I press his hand to my cheek and will the knot in my throat away. We are quiet for a while and I wonder what he’s thinking. I hope that he understands me, I hope that I’m getting through to him, that he knows that he is wanted, cared for, and valued. He is kind, sweet, soft spoken, and attentive to those around him though he acts as though he’s not. 

We sit like that for a long time before he releases my hand and he stands. I look up to him, neck aching, and wonder if he’ll leave. I don’t want him too, but I also know he has limits and we’ve come so far already that I don’t want to backtrack – not even a half step. 

He extends a large hand toward me and I look down to it for a moment before I take it. He helps me stand. 

“I… I came to get you for your bath,” he says, a blush touches his ears and I smile. 

“Oh? So, will you be bathing me?” I ask with a sideways grin. His blush grows deeper in the shadows of the room and I chuckle as he flounders for something to say. “I’m only kidding, Muriel,” I say and give his hand a soft squeeze as he quiets, eyes cast to the side, embarrassed. I may be kidding with him, but it isn’t far from the truth. I wish he would help me bathe, I’m sore and ache, especially my hip, and I want help even though I probably don’t need it. He leads me, slowly, to the door and we walk out into the warmly lit hall. I can hear the hum of people within the building. This place isn’t like the last inn that we visited. It reminds me a lot of a home. It is neat and tidy, a long rug runs the length of the hall, and each door has their elegantly painted numbers on it framed by a small wreath of fragrant juniper. The scent of cinnamon and allspice, clove, apples and pumpkin fill my senses and I feel at ease. We stop at the top of the stairs and I grip Muriel’s hand tighter as I go to ease down the first. He stops me from progressing and I turn my eyes to look up at him. 

He doesn’t look at me. Instead he’s looking down the steps to the bottom where a few patrons mill about in the quaint dining area. “I’ll… help you bathe,” he says so quietly I wonder if I heard him correctly. I want to ask, to make sure I’m not delusional, but I still my tongue and feel my own blush touch my ears and burn down my neck.

“Y-you don’t have to Muriel. I don’t want to make you-“

“I want to do this… I want to help you,” he says, his eyes still not meeting mine, focused on something I cannot discern. I cast my eyes to our locked hands, where he’s supporting me, and I nod. I don’t know if he sees me but my voice is caught in my throat and I don’t trust it. 

He leads me down the steps, taking each one with care. I want him to carry me because it’s uncomfortable to move but I know that joint injuries are remedied by use and movement, at least, Portia says as much. Something she must have heard from Julian at some point. The inn, I realize, is much larger than I took it to be. Gazing around the tavern part of the establishment, I notice that most of the patrons are older and appear to be wealthier than the average man. I wonder where exactly it is that we are. I slept for most of the trip here and only remember snippets of the journey before I woke up in my plush bed. I glance out of a frosted window and I see a horse drawn cart and a few people walking in the pale light of the moon. We’re in a town or, at least, at the outskirts of some sort of civilization.  


Muriel draws me down a short corridor that is lit with lamps mounted to the wall. I sense some magic in them and I notice, as I pass by one, that their wicks have been enchanted to burn brighter and slower, consuming less oil. We stop before a door with delicate white letters that reads, “Bath”, framed by juniper much like the other doors. Muriel unlocks it, his hands trembling slightly, and I feel a pang of guilt for having asked him if he would bathe me. I wish the filter on my tongue worked more often than it didn’t. I lay my hand over his just as the lock unclicks from its home. 

“Muriel…” I whisper and look up to him. He meets my eyes and I feel my thoughts slip away momentarily. His cheeks are tinted red from a blush, but his mouth doesn’t have the usual curl of detest or confusion that I had expected. He looks nervous, but not to the extent I had been anticipating. Had I misjudged him? 

“Yes?” he speaks when I do not, and I scramble to find my words and wits.

“Oh, um… are you sure you’re okay with this?” I ask again, just to make sure I’m not crossing a boundary he doesn’t want to. He pushes the door open slightly and looks into the bath then back to me. He nods.

“Yes… I am. You’re hurt and it would be safer if I were there… to help,” he says and glances back at me before assisting me the rest of the way into the room. I hear him lock the door behind us as I look around the space. It’s not what I was expecting. The whole room is smooth stonework with a wood bench to my left, backed up to a wall of cubbies filled with soaps, oils, towels and robes. A window in front of me is cracked just a little to allow the steam in the room to vent, preventing mold and mildew from building up. There is a tub recessed into the ground large enough for four people, steps leading down into its hot, inviting, waters. I reach my magic out into the space and feel the neatly carved runes of spells flicker to life under my investigation. Runes that keep the water circulating, runes for sanitation, runes of comfort and peace. Then I realize that it’s not an inn we’re staying at. 

“It’s a spa,” I whisper aloud, and Muriel turns to me. 

“Yes,” he says and pulls his own rune stone from his pocket and hangs it over the door for protection.

“Why?” I ask, curious more about who picked it than the fact that it was a spa. A spa sounded expensive and I can’t imagine either Muriel or Morga picking this place out. Morag would have been fine staying in the woods much like I image Muriel would as well. 

“This was the only place with any room,” he says honestly as he reaches to turn up the flame of a nearby lamp. They all brighten, and I can see Muriel far better now. 

“I see…” I trail and limp to the bench to sit down for a moment, relieving my hip of my weight. I sigh and listen to the soft sounds around me. The quiet shift of water in the pool, the sound of Muriel’s breathing and mine as well, the soft din of activity beyond the walls of this place. I smell rose, magnolia, and jasmine, the clean smell of pine and juniper… and myrrh. I sigh with a smile, content, and a little less nervous. I hear the shifting of clothes and I open my eyes to see that Muriel has only removed his ever-present cloak and is folding it. He’s wearing a deep green tunic with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black trousers, and his leather boots. He’s missing most of his belts, however, and he looks lighter somehow. Then I realize he’s had his hair trimmed. I blink at him as he sits down and begins removing his boots. It’s not a dramatic change but I can tell that the length is shorter and even, it’s been combed and cleaned, and it’s pulled back the same way that Morga had done before. He’s clean shaven too and I’m happy to see him like this, taking of himself. 

“You look very nice,” I say breaking the silence as he removes his second boot and sets it aside. He looks to me as I rub my cheeks with my hands indicating what I mean by it and blushes before looking away bashfully. 

“It’s… just a shave. I was overdue,” he says and absently rubs his chin before he leans down and begins to cuff up his pants. 

“Aren’t you getting in too?” I ask him without thinking and immediately wish I could draw the words back into my mouth and swallow them. I flounder for ways to back track. “I mean… you don’t have to. I just- I thought with how deep the bath is, uh… that you’d- get in too?” I ask trying to cover my unchecked fantasies and selfishness. I feel the blush burning up my whole body as I sit in silence, heart hammering relentlessly at my sore ribs. I want to run away from my words, away from the rejection I know that he’s going to offer me because he’s been quiet for far too long. 

I stand and take two awkward, uneven steps, toward the door. Then I feel his large hand on my wrist, and he stops me where I stand. My heart is in my throat and I feel panic rising in me because I’m a coward and I do not want to know his answer. I do not look at him because I’m afraid to.

“Do you…” he pauses, and I know that his brilliant green eyes are on me, hunting for an answer to a question that I have asked without thought. “Do you want me to?” he asks, and I swallow thickly then look to him. My eyes are wide, surprised that he’s present the option to me, and I meet the kindness of his gaze. I see his concern for me, and my shoulders relax but my pulse does not slow down. I nod at him and then lay a hand over the one on my wrist. 

“Only if it does not make you uncomfortable, Muriel,” I say as he stands and I can see him digesting my words, looking around the room, and I wonder what it is that he’s searching for. 

“I’ll… find a compromise,” he says quietly, and I nod before I turn and limp a few feet down the wooden bench. I do not watch as he removes his tunic or as he folds it neatly and places it on his cloak. “I’ll turn around for you,” he offers, and I look up to him, gasping softly as I finally see the bandage wound around his shoulder and I remember his injury from early this morning. He turns around before I can say anything, and I waste no time removing my gown. I pull it up over my hips, then torso, and head. 

I’m exposed to the warmth of the room and I’m suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am. I fold the garment and place it beside me before I cover the fullness of my breasts and stand. I turn my back to him and catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror before me. I look worn, haggard, and beaten. I reach up and touch the bruise on my cheek another is large and alarmingly black over my side and down across my back. I see superficial bruising along my leg where the chain had taken ahold of me. My eyes are sunken and the cool blue of my irises look grey and drained even in the light of the bathroom. The ruddiness of my cheeks has washed out, save for the blotching that had occurred when I’d blushed. The usual brilliance of my blonde curls has dulled with grime and dirt from weeks of travel without proper bathing. My hips and breasts, once full, now look trim and I know that I have lost weight from the time spent on the rough hunt for Lucio. I wasn’t prepared to see myself like this and it jars me. 

I see Muriel grab a towel from a cubie and undo his trousers, he doesn’t realize that I can see him, and I place my face in my hands. I hide from myself and from seeing him without his knowledge. I hear him moving around, setting things down, and arranging things. I do not look up, waiting for his call.

“Aster?” he calls my name and I turn to look at him, my arms crossed over my chest. He blushes and looks away momentarily before he, slowly, draws his eyes to mine. I am bare before him, exposed, vulnerable and I’m suddenly having doubts about what I’d proposed. The reality of our situation has me reeling and I struggle to keep my heart from racing. He extends a hand to me, his eyes only on my face, and I reach out with one, shaking, hand to grasp his. He trembles too but his hold is gentle and firm and I’m thankful for it. Carefully he leads me to the edge of the deep basin before he steps down into it; one step, two steps, and then a long third. The water comes to his hips that he has a towel tucked and knotted around. _Smart_, I think because it preserves what modesty he has left, and I feel more comfortable with him covered. Something I hadn’t considered _seeing_ when I’d let the offer slip. Muriel reaches out his other hand and, reluctantly, I accept it. 

The fullness of my body is exposed to him and I feel a level of nudity, vulnerability, that runs deeper than just flesh being laid bare. The quiet swirls around us like the steam of the bath and comforts me as I slide down into the embrace of the welcoming heat of the water. Muriel is a Goliath of a man, something that dawns on me like the sun on the cool earth in the morning. His hips are submerged but I stand level to his chest – the bottom of my breasts touching the water. I look up to his eyes and I see a question there, but my tongue is stuck in my mouth, tacky against the roof, and I cannot speak to ask him what he desires to know. I wonder what query lingers behind the fullness of his lips. 

A long moment, like so many before, passes between us before I, reluctantly, relinquish my hold on his hands. I lean forward in the water, brace my hands on the second step, floating in the water now, and reach for a wooden bottle labeled “Roses”. I pick it up and hand it to him, it is much smaller in his grasp than mine. I reach up to the bandage on my head and begin to unwrap it; he stops me.  


“Your wound…” he says, and I shake my head, blonde curls tickling my shoulders and neck. 

“Check it for me, please,” I ask him and turn around. He sets the bottle back down and takes over unwrapping my head. I feel his large fingers in my hair, carefully brushing away locks and tufts of my knotted mess. I wince when he touches a tender spot and he withdraws his hands. “Go on,” I encourage, and he does so reluctantly. 

“It’s not bleeding and has scabbed well,” he says softly, like he’s afraid his voice might make me bleed again. Slowly, I submerge my head, run my hands through my hair, and resurface. I look back to him and I see he’s reaching for the bottle once more. He pours a small amount in his hands and then begins to gently massage it into my scalp. I close my eyes and exhale heavily because this is divine. His hands in my hair, the closeness and intimacy of this act. He pays close attention to the nape of my neck, the tufts of hair above my ears, places that I didn’t know I liked to be touched. I feel weak, my knees threaten to give out, and my muscles have become liquid as I stand in this hot bath with a man, I’ve grown very fond of. It’s almost too much. Almost. 

When he is done, he carefully helps me rinse the suds from my hair with a small, shallow, bowl by the pool we stand in. He shields my face as he pours it over and I run my hands through my loose curls as he does so. I grab a cloth by the tub and dip it into the water. I pluck a small jar, a picture of a jasmine flower on it tells me its contents. I add the thick soap to the rag, rub it to make it lather, and turn my back to Muriel, who I’ve noticed watching me. Yet, despite his gaze, I do not feel intruded upon, but I turn my back to him again so that I may wash my stomach, breasts, and neck. I dip the cloth below the water and try to scrub my legs and, as I do so, I allow myself the luxury of petty magic. Magic that clips the stubble of my limbs short and smooth. It’s not that I mind hair on my body, just that in trousers and tight winter gear – the hair makes me itch and I detest the sensation. I turn to Muriel after a moment and hand him the rag. 

“Could you… get my back?” I ask him quietly and he nods. He adds more soap to the cloth, and I turn around. His touch melts me again and I lean into his attention. He rests a hand on my shoulder as he runs the fabric over my tight muscles soothing away the knots there and ridding my skin of the grime of the road. Then he is done, and I find myself unwilling to exit the balmy waters or leave the comfort of Muriel’s presence. I dip down into the water and motion for him to do the same. He does as I request. “Thank you,” I say quietly, and he looks away, suddenly bashful. 

“You’re… welcome,” he says and it’s a relief that he accepts what is rightfully his. “I’m glad you’re alright. I was worried when I saw you…” he doesn’t finish the sentence; it’s replaced with a grimace and downcast eyes. I drift closer to him, lightly touching his chest; the contact lights my nerve endings on fire. He stiffens like he’s going to move away from me, but he doesn’t and inwardly I sigh in relief. I touch the damp bandage on his arm. 

“I’m sorry you were hurt too,” I say but he shakes his head. 

“It happens,” he says repeating the words I spoke earlier today. My legs brush against his and I’m acutely aware of how close the water has taken us. My bare chest brushes against his and he stiffens, and I inhale deeply, unprepared for how brilliant the sensation is. 

“Sorry,” I whisper and avert my gaze elsewhere, but I do not move. I rest my hands between us, on the broad expanse of his chest, unsure of what I should do, if anything. All I know is that I want to stay here, with him, like this – close and intimate but unpressured to do anything but exist and explore emotions that are new, wonderful, and frightening.

Muriel acts for me, placing his imposing hands gently on my hips and bringing me closer to him. My soft stomach presses against his, one that is scarred, and battle hardened – like so much of his body. I look up to him, surprised but relieved that I do not have to guide all that we do. I smile, warmly, up at him and reach up, with dripping hands, to cup his face. I run a thumb over the scar on his left cheek and he leans into my touch, eyes half lidded, as he looks at me. A sigh passes through his nose and he relaxes more, slipping his arms farther around me, holding me closer. The fullness of my breast is pressed against him and the sensation makes me fell warm and giddy and I find that I enjoy it more than I’d like to admit. 

“Aster…” he breathes out, it sounds like a prayer, and I feel lightheaded with delight. I place a delicate finger over the fullness of his mouth before I lean in to close the distance between our lips. The kiss is featherlight at first and I relish in the simple sensation of our closeness before Muriel presses closer to me – much like he did when we shared our first kiss. I slip my hands away from his face and around his neck, weaving my hands into the thickness of his black locks, and pressing the fullness of my body against his. He wraps his arms fully around me, engulfing me, and I feel my heart melt. I wish he knew how much he already meant to me. How precious and loved he is by everyone, but especially me. The emotion isn’t one I’m ready to name but I know it and it both thrills and frightens me because it is such a small word that carries with it, enormous weight. 

I part my lips and ask, without words, for a deeper kiss. Muriel hesitates for only a breath before he allows me to taste him. He is sweet, notes of winter spices linger on his tongue and I drink him in just as he does to me. I do not want to part from him. I want to melt into him, sink into the cavity of his chest, and lose myself completely. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get close enough to him.  
We part after a time, panting slightly, bodies pressed tightly together, and lips red with lingering passion. I touch my forehead to his and close my eyes, feeling his breath tickle my skin as he exhales. I want to kiss him more but I’m afraid to move and disturb this moment between us. Instead I idly scratch at the nape of his neck, petting the hair there, and feel the chills rise on his skin at the attention. Cautiously he moves to kiss me again, soft and tender, thoughtful and caring. He parts from me before leaning in once more to kiss again… and again… and again… until I’ve lost count and I’m little more than putty in his hands. 

A distant bell outside chimes and, reluctantly, we untangle ourselves from one another. He stands and, taking my hand, assists me from the tub. My body is chilled by the cooler air and I limp hastily to grab a towel from a cubie on the wall. I begin to dry myself with the help of magic when I realize that Muriel hasn’t followed me out. I turn to look at him with a brow quirked upward in question. He looks away and blushes profusely. The gears in my head are still turning. 

“I… I need a moment,” he says and then it dawns on me and I immediately turn around, back stiff, and eyes wide. 

“Shall… shall I leave?” I ask timidly as I reach for my nightgown and pull it over my head. 

“Please,” he says, and I limp hurriedly to the door, unlock it, and slip out. I press my back against it, heart pounding, and eyes wide. How could I have not noticed that? He stands almost seven feet tall and, surly, he’s proportional. I blush so hard I think I may feint and at the same time I feel a shameless, involuntary, pooling of warmth between my legs. I cover my face with my hands and step to the side of the door, a foot down the hall and wait. I will away the unexpected thoughts.

Muriel steps out of the bath, looking flushed, but not in the way that might imply finishing a job. Maybe he needed a moment to cool off, seems like he’d be too embarrassed to manually fix his problem with me just outside of the door. I let myself believe this as he extends an arm to me and we begin walking back to my room. The silence between us is only mildly awkward as we go up the stairs and into my room. Inanna, Muriel’s beautiful familiar wolf, is curled up at the foot of my bed and when she sees us, she lifts her head and wags her tail. Her bright yellow eyes glinting with bridled excitement. I smile at her and I’m glad to see her here in the inn. I wonder where she’s been in the hours I’ve been sleeping. 

Muriel deposits me at my bed, he adjusts the sheets, sets the remaining dried fruits on the table by the lamp. I fumble with my legs, my sore hip hindering me, as I move into the bed. The sheets have cooled since I last laid in it and it sends a chill through me. 

“Are you cold?” Muriel asks me and glances to the fireplace where the embers are cool now. I nod my head but then reach out for his hand. He looks down to me and I consider the words I’m about to speak. 

“Would you, stay with me here, too? I don’t want to be alone,” I say, truthfully. I don’t want to be away from him, selfishly I want him to stay with me, so that I can feel the strength of his arms as I did before in the bath. I want to hear his even breathing, the soft thunder of his heart, and know that I am not alone. 

“I… will,” he says after a moment before he turns toward the fireplace and starts the fire again. It doesn’t take him long, the tender is dry, and the oak wood easily catches. He comes back to the bed, where I’m snuggled up under the quilts. He methodically removes his boots again, sitting them toward the end of the bed, he unfastens his cloak, folds it as he had before, and places it on the chest at our feet. Inanna stands up and moves to the opposite side of me, sits, and waits for Muriel to slide into bed. He does so carefully, like he’s afraid that the bed will snap under his weight. He’s mindful of me and I move so that he can get comfortable. I giggle softly when he struggles with the blanket before abandoning it completely and he lays at a diagonal, on his side, across the mattress. I’d forgotten that most people aren’t nearly seven foot tall. 

When he’s done shifting around, I slip in against his chest, curing myself in on him while tucking the blankets around. I feel his arms slowly engulf me, drawing me close, and I let a soft moan of delight escape. He stiffens a little at the sound and I try not to giggle before I look up to him. He meets my gaze. 

“You know… it just occurred to me that you didn’t actually bathe,” I mention, and he shrugs. 

“I did before you woke up,” he says, and I blink a little in surprise realizing just how much room he had to escape my advances but didn’t. 

“Oh…” I say as I snuggle into the warm strength of his chest, hearing the beat of his heart, and feeling the encompassing embrace swallow me. Inanna tucks herself against my back and I feel sleep tug heavily on my conscious mind. I welcome it and fall into a restful slumber.


End file.
